A Fairytale
by xXxJazzy B. RealxXx
Summary: Insanity and mute don't go together.


Disclaimer: I own everything. The "(())" is more frantic, insecure, or honest thoughts that are being ignored by the narrator. It indicates the narrator has somewhat of a thought-pattern disorder.

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**Prologue: Almost Lover**

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I'm not _m_**a**_d._ He is.

I don't do drugs. He does.

He is moving _a_rt. I'm a shit stain on the floor.

He is my "teacher." I am his "student."

I'm twenty-five years old. He's sixteen _((wh-what are you thinking right now...? SHIT, probably?!))_.

_((T...T-T—))_Technically "we" never turned into an "us". We were just "you and I", not an "us", not two people in one pronoun, because we were still far apart, and yet…

We don't even do anything. We don't even hold hands.

I always thought that "love" meant you wanted to fuck that person to death. You know, fuck them over and over and over, and keep fucking them until your slapping skin is all wrinkly and your blood pressure kills you on the spot.

That's what you do, right? So why hasn't he fucked me? _((You HEAR that? Why hasn't he FUCKED me yet?!))_

This bedroom.

This apartment.

This shitty little home of his, filled with demon-eyed rats and disgusting mold, stepped-on paintbrushes and dirty canvases, is my fairytale fantasy.

This is 'Neverland'.

I don't miss my aristocrat mansion or my thirteen year old brother's Russian Wolfhound. My family. I don't miss 'em. They've been nothing but there for me, but I don't miss either one of them. They were my walking pockets, who asked too many questions and put too many rules as a roof over my head.

I've cut off all contact with them four months ago.

I've been wandering the streets, hitting the clubs, and fucking in the back seats of cars for four months. I'm ragged and twitchy, but I'll skin you alive if you touch me when I tell you 'no'. Behind the glare in my eyes, is actually fear and insecurity. I can't seem to relax, I can't seem to stop clutching my knife, I can't seem to stop caring about what by-passing strangers think about me, I can't seem to lift my head up when I walk in the streets, I can't seem to organize my thoughts or even out my breathing, or trust the person sitting next to me at the bar.

Never pity someone because they've had it hard. Pity the person who's made life hard for themselves.

In other words, nothing was done to me that made me get like this. Nothing, no-thing,_nothing_. I wasn't raped by Daddy or six uncles, my family wasn't assassinated, Mama didn't pop drugs, I didn't get pregnant at thirteen, I wasn't traumatized by spilt milk. No one's ever done anything to hurt me in my 'sweet teens' or my childhood. It was what I've been doing to myself since I was eleven that got me like **this**. What is **this**, you wonder? You'll soon find out, perhaps in the second "chapter" _((heh, I called it "chapter"))_ of this fairytale.

It's no wonder my family isn't looking for me, looking for a dysfunctional lemur who escaped from the zoo. They're breaking their own 'rules'. Fuck 'em either way _((...don't they miss me?))_.

Yeah, you know what? I don't think…I don't think I ever smiled right for our family photos anyway.  
My dress was always pretty and new for the photos, my hair was always preened up and curlicued, but my smile was always crooked.  
My father would always walk over and level my chin up with the bridge of his thumb, then angle my face towards him and tell me to brighten my smile by ten watts for the camera.

…I always stared at his smile, the bleached teeth and full lips, and wonder how he could give me that…two-hundred watt smile after all the lives he's ordered to be assassinated.

How do you get through the day and yourself, Daddy?

Soon after, I always glanced at my mom on my right side to see if she was faking the same exact smile. Her smile was brighter than my father's, like a dazzling doll with rosy cheeks and dull, dead eyes that didn't mean anything.

How do you live these routines knowing your husband's a murderer by day and has women on either nut by night?

Then I would look back at the camera, and brighten my smile by ten, fake watts. That's when the camera's flash would finally explode, and blind me for a minute or less.

Family photos were very important for such a huge Mafia family. The government thinks we're hibernating, and that may be so, because we've been breeding like rats in the sewer. We don't dwell in sewers, but in the broad daylight, rats disguised as doves.

But then there came a time, when all the pretty dresses, fake smiles and the everyday sun just stopped shining.

And the rain came. Down, down, down. The pretty dresses were ruined, the smiles were washed off, and the sun didn't wanna come out.

My closet friends became the local prostitutes, (no, I don't do prostitution). I malnourished the family rat; Dad liked rats. I cussed out my personal maid, because she cared too much about me. I dropped out of school, just because. I fucked my brother's girlfriend, but I wasn't attracted to her. I blowed my brother's girlfriend's brother, but I wasn't attracted to him. Daddy became a bastard because his little girl became a bitch. The world was falling apart, and the first piece fell because of me, and because I'm not willing to put the piece back where it fell from even though it's right beside my toe. Fuck the piece. I kicked it away a long time ago.

Don't get it mixed - I do not feel any self-pity for how I am; I don't cry for me; I cry for no one. _((I...cry all the t-time...))_

…And the fucking rain. Argh, I love the fucking rain. Here in the northeastern part of Brooklyn, it never stops raining. Seemed like Global Warming reversed into Global Watering. The streets are always soggy and slippery, umbrellas are always hitting you upside the head as you waddle through the crowds.

Right now, I can't sleep…

I need something..._((someone))_...I need something _((Daddy...))_. Cigarettes. That's what I need. I forgot I have that in my jeans' pocket.

At this time of night, you don't hear crickets. Midnight has always been honking horns and roaring wheels of traffic. I can smell the leaves, the litter, the weed, the car exhaust, the wet pavement, and all the beautiful scents of the borough being brought into this bedroom by the draft.

It's my cigarette that's the sweetest oxygen.

Damn…I should r-really be sleep _((I'm too s-scared...))_.

Instead, I'm wide awake and sitting up on the broken down mattress in my panties; my eyes are bloodshot, my hair's in a bun I put no effort into, my cigarette is trembling between my fingers, my tank top's stained with grease, my thigh's crusted with dried blood from my pad-less and tampon-less period, the cold-sore on my lip really burns, and I'm watching him…

Watching him watch me.

He's more beautiful than any girl I've seen on any magazine. He's sexier than any teenaged boy model on 'Men's Wear'. He's a split down between Daniel Henny and Takeshi Kaneshiro. God damn, I'm not even into Asian guys. He walks like a painting that's alive, moves like a celestial creature.

His thick eyebrows, his dark-blue eyes, his sharp nose, his small lips, the slight cleft in his chin, his heavy jawbone, his masculine neck, his olive skin. I can't count all the thick strands of hair on his head that always glister with flecks of light like ink-black silk. It's so well-groomed, styled and long enough to reach his shoulders, it makes my gut sick with jealousy, while he's lying there on his back just...just watching me.

I named him 'Geisha'. You remember, don't you? That blue-eyed Asian chick off, "The Memoirs of a Geisha". He's got her eyes, but they're so much darker and less demonic looking. You, and no one else could tell his eyes are so blue, unless you look into them and never blink.

…I'm twenty-five, he's sixteen…

He's like a man, I'm like a little girl.

"What am I doing here with you, kid…?" I sniff up mucus dribbling down my mouth_((disgusting bitch))_, then suck the tobacco out of my cigarette deep and hard _((fucking druggie-wannabe))_. "I don't even trust my brother's dog in the bed with me…"

His abused knuckles begin running up and down my leg. I jerk back and look him over wearily, my bottom lip trembling with unasked questions, before looking on and making out with my cigarette again; my almost lover. My eyes feel hot and drippy all of the sudden, and I can't even out my breathing again.

God, usually he's awkward and junk, so what's he doing now? Finally making his move? Finally growing up? Finally finding his teenaged hormones?

…_God_, what am _I_ doing? With this…this, this high-school drop out immigrant who just migrated from Japan? From the white tank top he's wearing, it's obvious that he's a sexy piece of steak, but he's a child who knows more about life's hardships than I do. The scar on his stomach and slashes on his back tell me that. I swear they don't have slaves in Japan, though...

His shitty little bedroom is decorated with unsorted paintings and rough sketches, some of me. They're mystical and ethereal paintings, and I'm always beautiful—no, gorgeous in the tragic, bloody paintings that he makes of me. The opposite of how I am. I don't consider myself beautiful. The mirror yells it in my face enough.

We Smiths, we all look alike. 'Turquoise' eyes and thick 'ginger' hair, small 'grooved' top lip, full bottom lip, dark, arched eyebrows, small face, lean jaw, perfect body. The Italian and Ethiopian-mix.

I have the green-blue eyes, but when you really look at them, you can see them dulling gray and poisoned.  
My body isn't perfect. I'm lanky—tall and skinny, and I hunch a lot because I'm used to sneaking a smoke in the corner.  
My body is a 'no'; it needs more meat.  
My face is a 'yes'; but it's pale and plain and dry and shit because I've never touched make-up.  
My hair's the biggest problem:  
I had the ' thick ginger' hair, but now its almost always damp and matted because I spend my time hiking the highways in the rain or keeping myself under the shower. Due to straightening it out so much in the past, its split ends are burnt and bristly, and that means most of it looks cut in the back, while the rest is at uneven lengths to my lower back. When my hair isn't wringing wet, it looks poofy and dry. I don't like to do anything with it, so I slap mounds of gel on it. Doing that gives me the 'thin as thread, curly vines' hanging down the sides of my face look.

I'm junkie-looking _((fucking filthy))_, homeless-looking _((...fucking lost))_.

But Geisha's art makes me out to look like a fairytale Goddess, marinated in violent and depressing splashes of paint, filled with pointless hatred and imaginary pain. It all represents me perfectly.

I tap my cigarette's ash on the table next to the bedside and cough between my hoarse laughter.

PFFFT, the bastard didn't even speak English when we met. He still can't speak it well, but the bastard beside me, who can barely speak my lingo, is childish. He believes in pixie dust and other dimensions, kiddie-stuff that should've worn off when he got his pubic hairs, and he's told me this in broken English without a crumb of emotion on his face.

He's Christian, childish and psychotic; there is no room for dreams, fairytales, or worship in reality.

Mm-hm, we are two completely different people. He's sociopathic and whimsical, I'm emotional and disorientated. We both got psychological problems, but I'm here with him, in the same bed, jittery and unnerved by everything around me, while he's calm as a rock, because he asked me to be his "art muse" and "art student", yet he's not teaching me how to draw. So what the fuck...?

It's been four months between us.

I saw him everyday, and my girls in the club and on the curb told me he was stalking my every footstep.  
Told me to stay away from him.  
But I can't.  
Because he won't stay away from me. I long to feel wanted all the time and will submit to anything or anyone to feel wanted. Whether it be a quick fuck or a quick kiss from a stranger who put his or her hand down my pants, in my heart it means I'm _wanted_.

To him probably, we are Beauty and the Beast (he's beauty, I'm the beast), except there lives no romance.

Damn you, kid.

Sex me. Don't talk and paint about happiness and surreal beauty. Make my body feel like a 'yes' for a short moment. Make me feel pain, then. Teach me traumatization. What is it? Pleasure and pain all in one serving. Give it to me. I can swallow it. It'll make me a better person. Traumatized people are always stronger people.

I sigh out and risk a glimpse of the unblinking boy beside me.

"…If Dad found this address, you'll be hung in the courtyard. I'm willing to risk your safety, but are you?"

...I'll stop here. You're not ready to know about the erotica, the bloodshed and the hysteria that comes after all this; the truth I've learned from him. It wasn't until I experienced real trauma and heart-throb, that I realized I've been dishonest to myself for a very long time. I was smiling when I did, too. Ha, I must've looked insane that time. Insanely grinning while he was lying in his bl--...

...I'll stop here, and start this story off from the beginning. You need to know how we got like this. Me and him. Me and I.

Why I abuse my brain and my body, and the people around me.

It's not a love story.

I press my tongue against my bottom tooth as I smile crookedly and lazily at my 'Geisha'.

Because lovers actually fuck at first sight.

See? I ain't mad. I'm logical, and I don't care what you think _((I-I'm s-so fucking stupid...pl-please tell me what you think of m---me!))._


End file.
